NXNE – Day 3
NXNE
Toronto, ON
June 12-15th
Day three, Friday, was another one of those, late nights/hard to rise affairs and seeing as this was the real start of the whole festival (i.e. the weekend), I anticipated this evening to be another one of those rowdy affairs filled with regrets and perhaps a drink or two. Especially after the fiasco of last night and the resounding success of the very first SKUNK promoted show, it would only make sense to prepare properly for tonight and not allow expectations of SKUNK show number 2 to achieve anything remotely close to my wildest dreams. Hell, at this point, success beyond all expectations would be as simple as, oh, I don’t know, not having the place double booked? I guess that’s the secret, bomb the first night so that the ensuing evenings have nowhere to go but up. Fortunately, things ran much more smoothly, despite Mother Nature’s best attempts at playing the role of pain in the ass.
Again, after hearing of the theatrics and flare for dramatics from yesterday, I was both excited and fearful of what the workshop du jour had up its sleeve. Again though, fatigued and having a general dislike for such corporate bullshit was enough to repel me away from the Holiday Inn downtown (a multi-billion dollar industry, and all they can muster up is a shoddy, glorified motel [no offence Holiday Inn, I’ve stayed in your wonderful establishments numerous times and have been treated with nothing but respect]). As I found out later in the evening, I wasn’t the only one with the same thought process as apparently the audience was a mere fraction of the size as the day before, despite some pretty reputable industry peeps on the panel. Different shit, different day, same inability to care. All I know is that I’m doing my part to keep the bills paid, and it’s not that difficult… really.
The SKUNK show was all set to feature Sleek Louch, formerly of the mega-selling NYC troop (and former Bad Boy Records stars) Tha Lox. For those who don’t remember, Tha Lox had a good run back in the day when everything Puffy touched seem to hit platinum (remember Ma$e?). In reality, Lox had some real talent, but were unfortunately grouped into the mediocrity of the time and momentum from that whole East Coast/West Coast tiff. Sleek was one of those who could have been something much bigger, but had to settle for an underground following accompanied by 30-dollar tickets. The show was complete with about a dozen opening acts including a break-dancing competition (it was like a hip-hop amusement park!) meaning that there was no way I was going to be able to stay for even half of the show, which was too bad because I was really interested in checking out Leech and, you know, witnessing an actual SKUNK show. With a late start (ever heard of a hip-hop show starting early?), I was able to wander down to a couple of other venues first. Hell, those all-access wristbands are a godsend so it would be blasphemous not to take full advantage. First stop was down at the Bovine Sex Club where a whole evening of punk-rawk and straight-up rock n roll was set to go down. If anyone has ever had the pleasure of checking this place out, you can fully understand how joyous an occasion this was for me. A small, shithole of a venue with various undergarments hanging from the roof, some new, some with a little more “mileage”. The place can fit maybe 100, max, and came complete with a shitty sound system, a crabby bartender, and a clientele brimming with attitude. I felt right at home amongst my new friends. I fell into a drunken lust for a 3-foot midget punk with a Mohawk and, of course, no arms. The hair made her twice as tall as she really was and watching her drink her drink without the use of limbs made me naughtily wonder what other dirty tricks she’s learned to compensate for a lack of digits. I’ve never had an issue with self-confidence, but I just couldn’t muster up the courage to chat this pint-sized maiden up so I was left with erotic images of carrying her piggyback back to my place and using her like a… well I’ll try to keep this civil.
The drinks were cheap and flowing freely to help compensate for the blistering humidity outside and of course in such a small place. The sweat poured liberally down the faces of the faithful who still couldn’t bear being in public without the comfort of their patch-infested leather jackets and boots. It just wouldn’t have been complete without that musky odor of either the rush of out-of-towners, completely not knowing what to expect the moment they stepped in the joint, or the scent of a place that has been home to a history of blue-collar anarchy (Fuck you Right Guard, you fascist pigs!). Regardless, the comfort of being uncomfortable was both welcoming and uneasy. My friend, Esther and I only had time for one band and two drinks before we had to trek off to the Sleek Louch bonanza. We were fortunate enough to catch Montrealers The Nymphetes belt out about 10 straight-up old-school punk slabs, giving the crowd a nice prelude as to what was to come for the rest of their Bovine experience. I would have loved to stay to check out follow Montrealers Trigger Effect give Toronto a serious dosage of brutal Montreal metal, but I was eager for a successful SKUNK show and I would be damned if I was gonna miss it – despite the best attempts by the weather to prevent anyone from going anywhere, so by 9:30, we were outta the Bovine, and into the car, on our way to the Phoenix.
And then the rain started.
The old saying “raining cats and dogs” doesn’t do justice to the severity of the downpour. Hell, even raining amputee midgets wouldn’t be a fair assessment. It was a fog-like shower that prevented vision beyond 2 arm-lengths in front. This was the kind of rain built up from an ungodly amount of humidity in the air over the last couple of days that you knew would inevitably lead to this kind of flooding. Lighting flashed through the sky while the booming thunder rang louder than any band I had seen so far that week. This was the kind of storm you wish to witness in the warm confines of your home, with your sweetie using you for protection. This certainly wasn’t the kind of storm you wanted to be stuck in traveling from place to place. No siree.
If there was any silver lining, it was the fact that the Phoenix was in a run-down part of town, so to speak, so parking wasn’t that much of an issue. There was no driving around for a spot or parking 2 suburbs over and walking the remaining 4 miles. We were there, in front, with no sign of the rain letting up.
The phoenix is a nice little venue that looks half like some 18th century European theatre, half like my old high-school gym/assembly hall. This was all quite ironic considering the crowd was just as diverse. A number of old-timers (as in my age) melded with a bunch of youngsters not old enough to buy the 40s needed to tip their cups for their homies. Most were still in Kindergarten or less when the West Coast/East Coast war was at its pinnacle, an even greater tribute to Sleek for that reason alone. Altogether the crowd must have topped off around 300-350 – a good showing considering the plethora of other happenings throughout Toronto, not to mention the brutal, brutal weather. That probably kept a good number of “on-the-fencers” from making the commitment.
It was clear that we weren’t going to get an opportunity to check out any of the “main eventers” of the evening before having to check out, but we were lucky enough to check out my boy Alex Dimez do his thang on the mic, to get the crowd warmed up. Alex is both a rapper but also one of Brent’s loyal co-workers. By the time the break-dancing event started (complete with surprise guest Statik Selektah, being clearly ignored by the break-dancing gawkers), the clock was ticking dangerously close to 11:00. We needed to be gone from there no later than 11:45 to reach our next destination at the right time, and with this contest clearly en-route for longer than an hour, it was suffice to say we wouldn’t get to check out anymore Hip-hop for the evening. All in all though, I can’t really complain about how the show turned out, capacity-wise, especially after last night’s disaster. Hey, one of out two ain’t bad. In baseball, I would be in the hall of fame with that kinda average!
From the Phoenix, it was time to make our way to the familiar confines of the El Mocambo, where I knew there would be a gaggle of acquaintances lingering aound, anticipating the joyous rock-nature of the legendary Brant Bjork. For those unfamiliar, look out for my upcoming story on the former Kyuss beat-keeper in the 4.6 issue of SKUNK (on newsstands, oh sometime in September or October). As much as I like the rap the kids keep talking about these days, I had an itch to scratch this night that only balls to the wall, rock n roll would be able to satisfy. El Mocambo is another one of those venues that doubles for a sauna on evenings like this, despite the presence of an oversized fan located right next to the stage (turning it on probably would have helped, but its mere presence was enough to give people the impression that a nice breeze was just a circuit-breaker away). The place, as expected, was jam-packed. On the bright side, it wasn’t nearly as packed as one would have expected by seeing the animal-house ludicrousness outside. Fortunately, this was the result of a late-night performance by the “great” (hence the sarcasm) Bedouin Soundclash, who were to play in the upstairs area. The place was still a crowded mess in the downstairs area for Bjork, but the downstairs area was meant for larger crowds so the accommodations were much more acceptable. Brant and the boys were in fine form this night, proving to the world that stoner rock does not start and stop with Queens of the Stone Age. Brant has managed to carve out quite a cool niche for himself and his appreciation for his few faithful followers is evident. He played for a solid hour, breaking out a bunch of new tunes from his new album “Punk Rock Guilt”, before turning the evening over to a bunch of bar-band sounding hopefuls who didn’t have much of a chance to leave an impression on me once the liquor started flowing and the familiar associates began to come out of the woods. Sadly, it was my copious booze consumption that prompted me to have a good 5-minute conversation with someone who I thought was someone else. The confusion on his face was priceless, but not pride-dissolving enough for me to run away, abashed over my inability to remember faces.
Before long, the floor, along with a good area of my clothes, was covered with the sweet stickiness of one exotic drink after another (at least I hope that’s what it was). Friends and acquaintances poured in, stories and legends were made. One such colleague left with a woman only to call an hour later in a panic, not realizing that the girl had wanted to sleep with him. No one ever said stupidity wasn’t in abundance at these kinds of festivals. The evening was a scattering of drunks and suck-ups, moochers and flaunters, jocks scrounging up wads of money because hey bought rounds of drinks only to be caught with empty pockets and nowhere to turn. The music became little more than sound-filler for those awkward introductions to people I had no interest in speaking to (yes, I can be that obnoxious considering the circumstances, but at least I’m not rude about it!). I never even realized it when the bands stopped playing and the place emptied out as I was by now so oblivious to anything that wasn’t in my immediate peripheral vision.
By the time I left at 3, I realized that I was fast removing myself from the real reason I came to Toronto – to listen to music. I‘ve been all over and back, yet have actually heard very little music. I vowed to prioritize for the last night in town and soak in what music I wanted to hear. Fuck all those who wanted me to go here or there. I knew what I wanted to see and I was gonna be damned if I didn’t get the opportunity to appease my ears with sweet, blissful, indie rock.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
NXNE - Day 2
NXNE
Toronto, ON
June 12-15th
After the somewhat tame events from the first evening of the fest, I was fully aware that both personal as well as professional acquaintances expected more from me on this evening. Knowing this, I opted to cancel a bulk of the events I had planned throughout the earlier portions of the day (meaning everything up until 6 in the evening). Not only was I representing a library worth of magazines, I was also trying not to seem like a small fish finally learning to swim upstream in the river of reality. As I find out later, I didn’t miss much throughout the day. The big event I was most hestitant to skip out on was the NXNE annual conference, which is exactly what you think it to be. However, from years past, I distinctly remember these “gatherings” to be a little more… what’s the word? Constructive. Instead, from what I hear, the day consisted of little more than a plethora of industry people yelling and pointing fingers at everyone else in regards to the current struggles of the industry to maintain the staggeringly spoilt standards set upon itself. The funny part was that the afternoon “workshop” was supposed to be a way for professionals to congregate and work together in order to better the industry. Instead, everyone was in crisis mode. On any given day I would have enjoyed nothing more than to be there to witness this self-destruction… but the evening had too much promise to waste time and energy on such a pitiful display of the little guys showing their frustrations about not reaching the no longer realistic expectations and quotas put forth by the big-wigs who prefer to ignore the realities that the common person no longer has an interest in paying for something they can get for free. Sometimes acceptance of that which cannot be prevented is the most productive thing one can to.
So the day did not start until 6, where I was fortunate enough to attend the world premiere screening of Sam Dunn’s Global Metal. If none of you have had the pleasure of ever seeing Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey, I suggest you find a way to see it. Global Metal is the sequel, if you will, in which Dunn and crew trek to areas around the globe where one would think metal wouldn’t be relevant (or even existent!). While I, nor my partner in crime for the moment had passes to this event, I was fortunate enough to get a call from an amigo in Montreal who was currently on his way to the show. Somehow he managed to arrange for passes for the two of us two the event. However, these weren’t just any passes. We were bestowed golden tickets in the form of all-access wristbands for the entire event. This became an absolute blessing as the entire three months prior I kept telling myself to arrange for such passes only to dismiss it until it was too late. Up until then, I was hoping to use my charm, my credentials and, most importantly, my rugged good looks to get me into the dozens of shows I was hoping to attend. Now, I didn’t have to, allowing me to freely make a fool of myself (even though, apparently I’m even more charming when intoxicated and, in my opinion, I always look better when I see myself in a mirror whilst drunk). Living proof that I can get what I want without having to do anything. Let that be a lesson to all you lazy, freeloading aspiring journalists out there. Don’t bother trying… you can get it anyways. But mooching isn’t something that can be taught – it’s innate, like the Force.
Again, I get to spend another opportunity exploring an area unfamiliar to my eyes. Ok, not necessarily true as the showing was held at a theatre not too far away from the Mod Club from last night (actually same street, but a couple of blocks away). But, as always, surroundings can seem vastly different between night and day. During the hours of the sun, one can get an impression of the type of normalcy that exists, while at night, the vampires come out to play. A brief chance to tour the coffee shops and mini-trend restaurants littering the area was enough to fully clear the cobwebs of isolating oneself indoors for close to 20 hours.
Eventually we make our way to the showing of the movie. Where I was fortunate enough to again run into a mixed bag of various industry players both in my field and in others. Consider this Media Whoring number 2. The movie slated for start at 7 didn’t until closer to 8. I’m starting to notice a trend regarding start times and actual start times.
An enjoyable 2 hours later and I was enroute to what I hoped would be the first of many SKUNK co-presented concerts. A friend, Brent, who runs one of the biggest promotion companies out of Toronto, Just Entertainment, has always been an enthusiastic supporter of the magazine along with sharing the mutual loathing of High Times. And with the Toronto Cup currently inhabiting the city, it seemed beneficial to all parties involved to create some kind of link between the two festivals. It certainly didn’t hurt that the organizers of NXNE had practically begged Brent to involve himself with the festival, to bring in a sound atypical to the standard rock n roll/punk sound that seems to constantly be at the helm.
The first show was to feature famed Boston DJ Statik Selektah amongst a whole crew of b-ballers, breakdancers, MCs and the likes. However, in a complete show of disrespect, the club (I won’t name names, even though it was mostly the fault of the NXNE organizers) was mistakenly double-booked. Naturally the private party/ house music extravaganza received precedence because of the clientele most likely to spend more. Overly dapper (read: swanky, smelling of too much overpriced cologne) college guys and dressed to the nines chickies looking for the big score. This always wins out both economically and photogenically against the blunt-smokin’, beer hording posse of the white hip-hop community of Toronto. Lacoste 1 – Adidas – 0.
Poor Brent spent a bulk of the evening frantically trying to make things happen and what was supposed to be a 10:00 start in the main hall ended up materializing into a post midnight start in the dungeons of the place. Without any kind of visible clues outside as to the mere existence of any kind of show, not to mention the late show and many many people who walked away either disgusted or confused as to what exactly was going on, the crowd was, well… impressive. Not the pre-expected 500-plus impressiveness, but the fact that more than ten people were still there to witness the wax wizardry of Statik is a lot more to boast about considering the circumstances. The show went into the wee-hours of the morning and even though the crowd never really swelled beyond a few dozens, there was enough of a vibe to give the clientele their own sort of camaraderie against the mundane-ness of the sheep dancing upstairs to Britney, Fergie and broken record house DJs. Unfortunately I never had the enjoyment of basking in the glory of this co-SKUNK debut, and hopefully this wasn’t a sign of things to come.
Tomorrow night continues with the SKUNK promotions experiment, not to mention visits to the world (ok more like Toronto punk rawk) famous Bovine Sex Club, El Mocambo, the Phoenix and drunken stupidity of Bedouin Soundclash among others
Toronto, ON
June 12-15th
After the somewhat tame events from the first evening of the fest, I was fully aware that both personal as well as professional acquaintances expected more from me on this evening. Knowing this, I opted to cancel a bulk of the events I had planned throughout the earlier portions of the day (meaning everything up until 6 in the evening). Not only was I representing a library worth of magazines, I was also trying not to seem like a small fish finally learning to swim upstream in the river of reality. As I find out later, I didn’t miss much throughout the day. The big event I was most hestitant to skip out on was the NXNE annual conference, which is exactly what you think it to be. However, from years past, I distinctly remember these “gatherings” to be a little more… what’s the word? Constructive. Instead, from what I hear, the day consisted of little more than a plethora of industry people yelling and pointing fingers at everyone else in regards to the current struggles of the industry to maintain the staggeringly spoilt standards set upon itself. The funny part was that the afternoon “workshop” was supposed to be a way for professionals to congregate and work together in order to better the industry. Instead, everyone was in crisis mode. On any given day I would have enjoyed nothing more than to be there to witness this self-destruction… but the evening had too much promise to waste time and energy on such a pitiful display of the little guys showing their frustrations about not reaching the no longer realistic expectations and quotas put forth by the big-wigs who prefer to ignore the realities that the common person no longer has an interest in paying for something they can get for free. Sometimes acceptance of that which cannot be prevented is the most productive thing one can to.
So the day did not start until 6, where I was fortunate enough to attend the world premiere screening of Sam Dunn’s Global Metal. If none of you have had the pleasure of ever seeing Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey, I suggest you find a way to see it. Global Metal is the sequel, if you will, in which Dunn and crew trek to areas around the globe where one would think metal wouldn’t be relevant (or even existent!). While I, nor my partner in crime for the moment had passes to this event, I was fortunate enough to get a call from an amigo in Montreal who was currently on his way to the show. Somehow he managed to arrange for passes for the two of us two the event. However, these weren’t just any passes. We were bestowed golden tickets in the form of all-access wristbands for the entire event. This became an absolute blessing as the entire three months prior I kept telling myself to arrange for such passes only to dismiss it until it was too late. Up until then, I was hoping to use my charm, my credentials and, most importantly, my rugged good looks to get me into the dozens of shows I was hoping to attend. Now, I didn’t have to, allowing me to freely make a fool of myself (even though, apparently I’m even more charming when intoxicated and, in my opinion, I always look better when I see myself in a mirror whilst drunk). Living proof that I can get what I want without having to do anything. Let that be a lesson to all you lazy, freeloading aspiring journalists out there. Don’t bother trying… you can get it anyways. But mooching isn’t something that can be taught – it’s innate, like the Force.
Again, I get to spend another opportunity exploring an area unfamiliar to my eyes. Ok, not necessarily true as the showing was held at a theatre not too far away from the Mod Club from last night (actually same street, but a couple of blocks away). But, as always, surroundings can seem vastly different between night and day. During the hours of the sun, one can get an impression of the type of normalcy that exists, while at night, the vampires come out to play. A brief chance to tour the coffee shops and mini-trend restaurants littering the area was enough to fully clear the cobwebs of isolating oneself indoors for close to 20 hours.
Eventually we make our way to the showing of the movie. Where I was fortunate enough to again run into a mixed bag of various industry players both in my field and in others. Consider this Media Whoring number 2. The movie slated for start at 7 didn’t until closer to 8. I’m starting to notice a trend regarding start times and actual start times.
An enjoyable 2 hours later and I was enroute to what I hoped would be the first of many SKUNK co-presented concerts. A friend, Brent, who runs one of the biggest promotion companies out of Toronto, Just Entertainment, has always been an enthusiastic supporter of the magazine along with sharing the mutual loathing of High Times. And with the Toronto Cup currently inhabiting the city, it seemed beneficial to all parties involved to create some kind of link between the two festivals. It certainly didn’t hurt that the organizers of NXNE had practically begged Brent to involve himself with the festival, to bring in a sound atypical to the standard rock n roll/punk sound that seems to constantly be at the helm.
The first show was to feature famed Boston DJ Statik Selektah amongst a whole crew of b-ballers, breakdancers, MCs and the likes. However, in a complete show of disrespect, the club (I won’t name names, even though it was mostly the fault of the NXNE organizers) was mistakenly double-booked. Naturally the private party/ house music extravaganza received precedence because of the clientele most likely to spend more. Overly dapper (read: swanky, smelling of too much overpriced cologne) college guys and dressed to the nines chickies looking for the big score. This always wins out both economically and photogenically against the blunt-smokin’, beer hording posse of the white hip-hop community of Toronto. Lacoste 1 – Adidas – 0.
Poor Brent spent a bulk of the evening frantically trying to make things happen and what was supposed to be a 10:00 start in the main hall ended up materializing into a post midnight start in the dungeons of the place. Without any kind of visible clues outside as to the mere existence of any kind of show, not to mention the late show and many many people who walked away either disgusted or confused as to what exactly was going on, the crowd was, well… impressive. Not the pre-expected 500-plus impressiveness, but the fact that more than ten people were still there to witness the wax wizardry of Statik is a lot more to boast about considering the circumstances. The show went into the wee-hours of the morning and even though the crowd never really swelled beyond a few dozens, there was enough of a vibe to give the clientele their own sort of camaraderie against the mundane-ness of the sheep dancing upstairs to Britney, Fergie and broken record house DJs. Unfortunately I never had the enjoyment of basking in the glory of this co-SKUNK debut, and hopefully this wasn’t a sign of things to come.
Tomorrow night continues with the SKUNK promotions experiment, not to mention visits to the world (ok more like Toronto punk rawk) famous Bovine Sex Club, El Mocambo, the Phoenix and drunken stupidity of Bedouin Soundclash among others
Thursday, June 26, 2008
NXNE - Day 1
NXNE
Toronto, ON.
June 12-15th
Having been involved in the music business in some capacity or another for quite a while now, I am proud to be able to say that I have accumulated quite an extensive list of connections and “go to people” if there happens to be anything I may need as far as music goes. Well, when NXNE, Canada’s equivalent to the famed SXSW in Austin, Texas, hit Toronto between the 12th and 15th of June, it was a great opportunity to spend time with a whole bunch of these people face to face. Drinks, concerts, movie premieres, drinks, deals, relationships (business and personal) solidified and chased down with a shot of whiskey. Earplugs will be in great demand as will the ability to recover faster than normal. We’re all getting older so the invincibility that used to reign over our thought process is drifting further and further away. One day, one horribly, horribly regrettable day, I will learn that lesson. But this week was not the time to be admitted into the school of hard knocks. There was work to be done.
I made my way to the T-dot early Wednesday, with the anticipation of catching my friend Tim and his band The Stills at the Mod Club. I know little about the city of Toronto other than that it is fairly large, jumbled, and easy to get lost in (I guess all three of these would mean the same). I’ve been there on numerous occasions, but never to the extent of the traveling around I planned on doing throughout the weekend. First night in, I was already somewhere I’ve never been before. Fortunately I had a couple of very dear friends from the area guiding me around like a Seeing Eye dog and we managed to make our way to the show 15 minutes into the opening act. I didn’t catch their name right away (Hollerado, as I found out later on) but was impressed by the energy and their sheer enjoyment they had just for being up on stage. The downside of showing up fashionably late was missing most of their performance so it was over almost as quickly as it began (at least for us). Break in between sets so I leave my compatriots to their own devices while I head outside for a breath of fresh air in the shape of a Du Maurier death stick. The outside was large and electric. A nice-sized terrace in front with tables and seating possibilities galore. A bar station was set up, but clearly not open on this Wednesday night. That may be for the future private parties planned for the weekend or it may just be one of the great pluses of this particular venue. No sooner did the brown filter of my smoke hit my lips that I bumped into a couple of acquaintances from the momentum-building Arts & Crafts label, home of indie darlings like Feist, Broken Social Scene and, of course, The Stills. Industry whoring opportunity #1. I Spend a good ten minutes giving trying to be cool and collective while at the same time giving the impression that I needed them, where in reality it’s the other way around (media can exist without product whereas the other way around is impossible, or at least very, very difficult). Still, no matter how firmly entrenched I may be in the industry, I’ll always feel like I have to sell myself and be eternally grateful for the opportunities people give me to showcase them and the services that they provide. Maybe I’m just not used to being lumped into this family. Jaded? Clearly not.
Back inside where my friends were still in the same spot I left em half an hour ago (these Seeing Eye dogs also learned the meaning of the word ‘stay’, I suppose). The Stills eventually hit the stage at 10:30, approximately half an hour after Tim told me they would. But you can never take an artist for the word, can you? Right from the get-go, it’s clear that the band has polished not just their sound but their stage presence. They were always very comfortable in front of the crowd and were always great at giving whatever venue and however many number of people in the crowd a warm impression, but now there was more, so much more. That intimacy was still there, but the band performed like a band that has been around the block and are now just starting to show the confidence of someone expecting their inevitable breakthrough. Fancy lights coincided with the beat while spotlights and enjoyably over-the-top solos and synchronism among members emitted a distinct sign of complacency with where they were in their career.
The show began with the first two tracks off the Logic Will Break Your Heart album, “Lola” and “Gender Bombs”, which gave the crowd an immediate chance to sing along. With their new album not due until the Middle of August, there was a lot of curiosity but also a lot of blank, uncertain faces staring back from the floor, so starting with a couple of classics was smart.
For the next 90 minutes, Tim, Oliver and the rest did a great job mixing in the old with the new. Even tunes like “Still in Love Song” were given an update, minor tweaking to compensate for the staleness of playing the same song so many times.
As for the the new album, Oceans Will Rise, while there were a couple of iffy tracks mixed in that kind of left the crowd shuffling their feet, worried about experiencing the same disappointment that many felt regarding the band’s second album, Without Feathers, for the most part, the anticipation and excitement over the release grew at a feverish pace. The melodic harmonizing by the two co-singers during “Being Here” had the 200 some odd people bouncing around while the previously released “Snakecharming the Masses” is even better to hear live than it was on their website.
While there wasn’t a ton of actual interaction between band and crowd, that only added to the personality of the band and their guise as being all business. Sure they have their fun on stage, but they also take a ton of pride in their abilities to entertain. Nary an off-key nor broken vocals could be heard, as if the crowd would have cared. They ate it all up. Maybe it was the anticipation of what was to come over the next 4 days, but the buzz around the place was higher than one would have imagined for a Wednesday night and the band fed off of it.
When the show was over, the crowd was hot and sweaty and content. A lot of smiling faces to go along with a boatload of groupies (you know you have it made when…) failing miserably at getting into the backstage area.
At just before midnight, the prospects of a plethora of parties and industry mingling was rife. But with four straight days in front and a lot of schmoozing still to go, I felt it was best to call it an early night. Tomorrow was to be filled with movie premiers and SKUNK promoted shows that went wrong….
To be Continued…
Toronto, ON.
June 12-15th
Having been involved in the music business in some capacity or another for quite a while now, I am proud to be able to say that I have accumulated quite an extensive list of connections and “go to people” if there happens to be anything I may need as far as music goes. Well, when NXNE, Canada’s equivalent to the famed SXSW in Austin, Texas, hit Toronto between the 12th and 15th of June, it was a great opportunity to spend time with a whole bunch of these people face to face. Drinks, concerts, movie premieres, drinks, deals, relationships (business and personal) solidified and chased down with a shot of whiskey. Earplugs will be in great demand as will the ability to recover faster than normal. We’re all getting older so the invincibility that used to reign over our thought process is drifting further and further away. One day, one horribly, horribly regrettable day, I will learn that lesson. But this week was not the time to be admitted into the school of hard knocks. There was work to be done.
I made my way to the T-dot early Wednesday, with the anticipation of catching my friend Tim and his band The Stills at the Mod Club. I know little about the city of Toronto other than that it is fairly large, jumbled, and easy to get lost in (I guess all three of these would mean the same). I’ve been there on numerous occasions, but never to the extent of the traveling around I planned on doing throughout the weekend. First night in, I was already somewhere I’ve never been before. Fortunately I had a couple of very dear friends from the area guiding me around like a Seeing Eye dog and we managed to make our way to the show 15 minutes into the opening act. I didn’t catch their name right away (Hollerado, as I found out later on) but was impressed by the energy and their sheer enjoyment they had just for being up on stage. The downside of showing up fashionably late was missing most of their performance so it was over almost as quickly as it began (at least for us). Break in between sets so I leave my compatriots to their own devices while I head outside for a breath of fresh air in the shape of a Du Maurier death stick. The outside was large and electric. A nice-sized terrace in front with tables and seating possibilities galore. A bar station was set up, but clearly not open on this Wednesday night. That may be for the future private parties planned for the weekend or it may just be one of the great pluses of this particular venue. No sooner did the brown filter of my smoke hit my lips that I bumped into a couple of acquaintances from the momentum-building Arts & Crafts label, home of indie darlings like Feist, Broken Social Scene and, of course, The Stills. Industry whoring opportunity #1. I Spend a good ten minutes giving trying to be cool and collective while at the same time giving the impression that I needed them, where in reality it’s the other way around (media can exist without product whereas the other way around is impossible, or at least very, very difficult). Still, no matter how firmly entrenched I may be in the industry, I’ll always feel like I have to sell myself and be eternally grateful for the opportunities people give me to showcase them and the services that they provide. Maybe I’m just not used to being lumped into this family. Jaded? Clearly not.
Back inside where my friends were still in the same spot I left em half an hour ago (these Seeing Eye dogs also learned the meaning of the word ‘stay’, I suppose). The Stills eventually hit the stage at 10:30, approximately half an hour after Tim told me they would. But you can never take an artist for the word, can you? Right from the get-go, it’s clear that the band has polished not just their sound but their stage presence. They were always very comfortable in front of the crowd and were always great at giving whatever venue and however many number of people in the crowd a warm impression, but now there was more, so much more. That intimacy was still there, but the band performed like a band that has been around the block and are now just starting to show the confidence of someone expecting their inevitable breakthrough. Fancy lights coincided with the beat while spotlights and enjoyably over-the-top solos and synchronism among members emitted a distinct sign of complacency with where they were in their career.
The show began with the first two tracks off the Logic Will Break Your Heart album, “Lola” and “Gender Bombs”, which gave the crowd an immediate chance to sing along. With their new album not due until the Middle of August, there was a lot of curiosity but also a lot of blank, uncertain faces staring back from the floor, so starting with a couple of classics was smart.
For the next 90 minutes, Tim, Oliver and the rest did a great job mixing in the old with the new. Even tunes like “Still in Love Song” were given an update, minor tweaking to compensate for the staleness of playing the same song so many times.
As for the the new album, Oceans Will Rise, while there were a couple of iffy tracks mixed in that kind of left the crowd shuffling their feet, worried about experiencing the same disappointment that many felt regarding the band’s second album, Without Feathers, for the most part, the anticipation and excitement over the release grew at a feverish pace. The melodic harmonizing by the two co-singers during “Being Here” had the 200 some odd people bouncing around while the previously released “Snakecharming the Masses” is even better to hear live than it was on their website.
While there wasn’t a ton of actual interaction between band and crowd, that only added to the personality of the band and their guise as being all business. Sure they have their fun on stage, but they also take a ton of pride in their abilities to entertain. Nary an off-key nor broken vocals could be heard, as if the crowd would have cared. They ate it all up. Maybe it was the anticipation of what was to come over the next 4 days, but the buzz around the place was higher than one would have imagined for a Wednesday night and the band fed off of it.
When the show was over, the crowd was hot and sweaty and content. A lot of smiling faces to go along with a boatload of groupies (you know you have it made when…) failing miserably at getting into the backstage area.
At just before midnight, the prospects of a plethora of parties and industry mingling was rife. But with four straight days in front and a lot of schmoozing still to go, I felt it was best to call it an early night. Tomorrow was to be filled with movie premiers and SKUNK promoted shows that went wrong….
To be Continued…
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Concert Review - Kanye West
Kanye West/Rhianna/N.E.R.D./Lupe Fiasco
Bell Center, MTL.
May 20th, 2008
Those who know me and my work should know that there has always been a soft spot in my heart for good ol hip-hop. The mom n’ pop kind of good lyrics, phat beats and entertainment not involving gats, bling or blurting out the word “nigga” every 7 seconds in order to assert who the word now belongs to (The upper-class whities at the record labels cashing in). I may be a deadhead in my heart, but I take pride in the variety of my musical lusts. Personally, I hate it whenever I ask what kind of music someone listens to and they answer something like “pretty much everything”. I tend to go off on rants and name obscure groups from the past and myspace fads with less than 50 friends just to flex my musical muscles.
But that’s another story altogether.
Anyways, the point is that while I’ve seen my fair share of rap concerts, I’ve never had the pleasure of witnessing one like this one, where the hype and build for this meeting of the mainstream reached beyond absurdity. I’ve been fortunate to witness smaller club shows headlined by “phenoms” like Busta Rhymes, Immortal Technique, hell even Chamillionaire (don’t ask… it was work-related), but none could match the ludicrousness of what I was to witness tonight.
I had the pleasure of meeting up with Kanye prior to the show and, while he is a nice guy, very respectful, the persona, the “George Bush doesn’t care about black people” media hound isn’t just for show. That is who Kanye is. He doesn’t go around proclaiming himself the biggest star in the universe because he wants the attention… he truly believes it. However, he vowed to give a shout out to me and SKUNK at the show so even I couldn’t help but get a little giddy over the prospect. I very much doubted it would happen, but at this point, I couldn’t help but appreciate just the mere notion that he would consider it. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect what was to come later.
Anyways, we, posse and I, sauntered up to the front of La Belle at 7:15 for an apparent 7:30 start. An amateurish move considering the genre of music as well as the age group. The outside was a zoo, an eclectic mix of underage girls doing their best to appease the masses and guys attempting to stand out by looking exactly like their thousands of counterparts. With 15,000 trying to cram through a couple of doors, to be patted down by a combination of neurotic and disinterested security. The result was a lot of standing around, listening to a thousand other people have the same goddamn conversation. The smell of smoke, was both pungent and poignant, reinforcing so many of the stereotypes that real hip-hoppers try to efface. Pants were low, laces were undone, cleavage was in abundance, leaving me in a state of limbo between lascivious and guilt. My quartet single-handedly raised the age of the show to a legal limit.
The result of the security shenanigans was 45 minutes of standing around, trying to maintain any semblance of sanity. We were eventually ushered in to hear the last bit of Lupe Fiasco’s last song, “Daydreamin”. An unfortunate drawback to arriving late, but with three acts still remaining, there was plenty of time to wash drown out the memory of missing one of today’s finest MC’s.
With about 20 minutes between Lupe and N.E.R.D., there was ample time to scope out the atmosphere. To say I felt old was truly an understatement. I felt like a chaperone. Young kids dishing out mommy and daddy’s money on overpriced merch like it was going out of style. Fake Kanye sunglasses were aplenty as were the 40-dollar t-shirts that looked like they were hastily put together in someone’s garage. But still the kids ate it up – the irony of trying to show off being at a spectacle that was only attended by the same people the kids were trying to show off to.
N.E.R.D., the deadly combination of the great Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo made their way to the stage to a vivacious roar only to be drowned out by a bass that rivals an entire Cali car show with stereos on full blast. Blasting through track after blistering track from their 3 releases (with the third, Seeing Sounds, being released in early June), Pharrell, the man behind so many of this decade’s hits, knows a thing or two about what the crowd wants. With a full-on band, including 2 drummers and numerous dancers, the stage was in a constant state of busy, leaving the horde of kids buzzing, now in more ways than one. If there were any drawbacks, it was the intense bass. I understand that a heavy beat is as integral to a rap show as anything, however, and perhaps this is just my old age getting the better of me, when no song is distinguishable from any other, I find that to be a problem. But that didn’t stop me, or anyone familiar with the NERDly sound to bang their mutha fuckin’ heads to tracks like “Lapdance” and my personal fave, “Rockstar”. After a solid 40 minutes of really warming the crowd up for the main courses, Williams and Hugo can take pride in knowing that they succeeded in their roles as hype men.
After another half hour intermission, it was time for the uber-young gals to relish the glory of all that is Rhianna, and her compilation of bubble-gum pop. A brief glance around the arena showed very few from the male gender showing their love in dance form. It was a sea of pre-pubescent girls letting go of any reservations they may have had about looking foolish in front of the opposite sex. Rhianna danced and purred her way through about an hour’s worth of redundancy, that those with better trained ears were able to distinguish as “Umbrella”, “S.O.S.”, and “Shut Up and Drive” among others. My colleagues and I were enjoying the moment immensely, gleefully mocking the droves of younguns, and probably having a better time, despite the complete disinterest in the music. However, for journalistic sake, I will give credit where credit is due. Rhianna is good at what she does. She acknowledges the crowd, encourages interactions and participation and just seems like a very likeable and approachable person.
Which was, for the most part, not the persona that Mr. West exhibits when it was his turn to turn the lights off. While his time to shine was supposed to be 10:00 (probably to appease the legion of kids on parental curfew), the show began no earlier than 10:45 to a raucous but energized roar.
The show began, as one would have expected - with an over-the-top intro complete with flashing lights and an out-of-this-world (literally) set-up. Going into detail over the absurdity of what Kanye was attempting to pull off somehow wouldn’t do justice. In a twist from a typical Ray Bradbury story, we find our self-proclaimed “biggest star in the universe” trapped alone on a planet shamelessly similar to Mars (I ain’t no astronomer though). For the next 90 minutes, the songs, while well performed, were too sporadic and any momentum that was created via bigger hits like “Jesus Walks” or “Gold-digger” were left to die during the far too many boring 10 minute interludes consisting of conversations between Kanye and his interpretation of H.A.L. from 2001:A Space Odyssey.
That’s not to say that from an overall scheme of things, the entire spectacle was a mess. It was well put together and the crowd loved everything about it, From the opener “I Wonder” all the way to classics like, “Diamonds from Sierra Leone”, the crowd was revved-up and amped, hanging on every syllable, every rhyme, every verse spit as if the message was the medium. Kanye put his heart and soul towards invoking as much emotion as possible into his lyrics, and his passion regarding his own talents was evident. However, there’s always been a fondness in my heart for a musician who lets his talent as a musician take center stage, without all the unnecessaries of the circus sideshow bravado that usually lesser talented artists rely on. Kanye had the right idea in that the entire stage was reserved for him and only him, yet too much of that was lost with the visual distractions all around. With all the energy and hype created by N.E.R.D. and even Rhianna, Kanye did little to keep the high level of excitement. The high emotional moment didn’t come from the more intense tracks like “Stronger” but from his touching tribute to his mother, “Hey Mama”, complete with a somewhat odd rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” by one of his backup singers.
Only, when the stage show was over and Kanye had a chance to be Kanye did the artist I was hoping to see burst through. The show sadly peaked when Lupe joined Kanye on stage to perform the hit “Touch The Sky” with all the emotion and energy I was waiting for for close to 90 minutes. A great ending for what I, apparently the minority, felt was a somewhat disappointing show.
As for my shout-out, it came, although, not in the way I was hoping it would. After the show was complete, Kanye felt compelled to play Devil’s Advocate with a 10-minute rant against media, complete with a declaration to “Fuck Magazines” to which the crowd roared in approval, and had me shrinking in my seat. Was it directed at me or SKUNK? I highly doubt it. However, I am sure this was going through his mind when he promised his acknowledgement of our publication. Big words from someone who relies so heavily on his foolish award show antics and bold televised statements against The prez’s views on black people for the purpose of media exposure. Talk about biting the hand that feeds.
Bell Center, MTL.
May 20th, 2008
Those who know me and my work should know that there has always been a soft spot in my heart for good ol hip-hop. The mom n’ pop kind of good lyrics, phat beats and entertainment not involving gats, bling or blurting out the word “nigga” every 7 seconds in order to assert who the word now belongs to (The upper-class whities at the record labels cashing in). I may be a deadhead in my heart, but I take pride in the variety of my musical lusts. Personally, I hate it whenever I ask what kind of music someone listens to and they answer something like “pretty much everything”. I tend to go off on rants and name obscure groups from the past and myspace fads with less than 50 friends just to flex my musical muscles.
But that’s another story altogether.
Anyways, the point is that while I’ve seen my fair share of rap concerts, I’ve never had the pleasure of witnessing one like this one, where the hype and build for this meeting of the mainstream reached beyond absurdity. I’ve been fortunate to witness smaller club shows headlined by “phenoms” like Busta Rhymes, Immortal Technique, hell even Chamillionaire (don’t ask… it was work-related), but none could match the ludicrousness of what I was to witness tonight.
I had the pleasure of meeting up with Kanye prior to the show and, while he is a nice guy, very respectful, the persona, the “George Bush doesn’t care about black people” media hound isn’t just for show. That is who Kanye is. He doesn’t go around proclaiming himself the biggest star in the universe because he wants the attention… he truly believes it. However, he vowed to give a shout out to me and SKUNK at the show so even I couldn’t help but get a little giddy over the prospect. I very much doubted it would happen, but at this point, I couldn’t help but appreciate just the mere notion that he would consider it. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect what was to come later.
Anyways, we, posse and I, sauntered up to the front of La Belle at 7:15 for an apparent 7:30 start. An amateurish move considering the genre of music as well as the age group. The outside was a zoo, an eclectic mix of underage girls doing their best to appease the masses and guys attempting to stand out by looking exactly like their thousands of counterparts. With 15,000 trying to cram through a couple of doors, to be patted down by a combination of neurotic and disinterested security. The result was a lot of standing around, listening to a thousand other people have the same goddamn conversation. The smell of smoke, was both pungent and poignant, reinforcing so many of the stereotypes that real hip-hoppers try to efface. Pants were low, laces were undone, cleavage was in abundance, leaving me in a state of limbo between lascivious and guilt. My quartet single-handedly raised the age of the show to a legal limit.
The result of the security shenanigans was 45 minutes of standing around, trying to maintain any semblance of sanity. We were eventually ushered in to hear the last bit of Lupe Fiasco’s last song, “Daydreamin”. An unfortunate drawback to arriving late, but with three acts still remaining, there was plenty of time to wash drown out the memory of missing one of today’s finest MC’s.
With about 20 minutes between Lupe and N.E.R.D., there was ample time to scope out the atmosphere. To say I felt old was truly an understatement. I felt like a chaperone. Young kids dishing out mommy and daddy’s money on overpriced merch like it was going out of style. Fake Kanye sunglasses were aplenty as were the 40-dollar t-shirts that looked like they were hastily put together in someone’s garage. But still the kids ate it up – the irony of trying to show off being at a spectacle that was only attended by the same people the kids were trying to show off to.
N.E.R.D., the deadly combination of the great Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo made their way to the stage to a vivacious roar only to be drowned out by a bass that rivals an entire Cali car show with stereos on full blast. Blasting through track after blistering track from their 3 releases (with the third, Seeing Sounds, being released in early June), Pharrell, the man behind so many of this decade’s hits, knows a thing or two about what the crowd wants. With a full-on band, including 2 drummers and numerous dancers, the stage was in a constant state of busy, leaving the horde of kids buzzing, now in more ways than one. If there were any drawbacks, it was the intense bass. I understand that a heavy beat is as integral to a rap show as anything, however, and perhaps this is just my old age getting the better of me, when no song is distinguishable from any other, I find that to be a problem. But that didn’t stop me, or anyone familiar with the NERDly sound to bang their mutha fuckin’ heads to tracks like “Lapdance” and my personal fave, “Rockstar”. After a solid 40 minutes of really warming the crowd up for the main courses, Williams and Hugo can take pride in knowing that they succeeded in their roles as hype men.
After another half hour intermission, it was time for the uber-young gals to relish the glory of all that is Rhianna, and her compilation of bubble-gum pop. A brief glance around the arena showed very few from the male gender showing their love in dance form. It was a sea of pre-pubescent girls letting go of any reservations they may have had about looking foolish in front of the opposite sex. Rhianna danced and purred her way through about an hour’s worth of redundancy, that those with better trained ears were able to distinguish as “Umbrella”, “S.O.S.”, and “Shut Up and Drive” among others. My colleagues and I were enjoying the moment immensely, gleefully mocking the droves of younguns, and probably having a better time, despite the complete disinterest in the music. However, for journalistic sake, I will give credit where credit is due. Rhianna is good at what she does. She acknowledges the crowd, encourages interactions and participation and just seems like a very likeable and approachable person.
Which was, for the most part, not the persona that Mr. West exhibits when it was his turn to turn the lights off. While his time to shine was supposed to be 10:00 (probably to appease the legion of kids on parental curfew), the show began no earlier than 10:45 to a raucous but energized roar.
The show began, as one would have expected - with an over-the-top intro complete with flashing lights and an out-of-this-world (literally) set-up. Going into detail over the absurdity of what Kanye was attempting to pull off somehow wouldn’t do justice. In a twist from a typical Ray Bradbury story, we find our self-proclaimed “biggest star in the universe” trapped alone on a planet shamelessly similar to Mars (I ain’t no astronomer though). For the next 90 minutes, the songs, while well performed, were too sporadic and any momentum that was created via bigger hits like “Jesus Walks” or “Gold-digger” were left to die during the far too many boring 10 minute interludes consisting of conversations between Kanye and his interpretation of H.A.L. from 2001:A Space Odyssey.
That’s not to say that from an overall scheme of things, the entire spectacle was a mess. It was well put together and the crowd loved everything about it, From the opener “I Wonder” all the way to classics like, “Diamonds from Sierra Leone”, the crowd was revved-up and amped, hanging on every syllable, every rhyme, every verse spit as if the message was the medium. Kanye put his heart and soul towards invoking as much emotion as possible into his lyrics, and his passion regarding his own talents was evident. However, there’s always been a fondness in my heart for a musician who lets his talent as a musician take center stage, without all the unnecessaries of the circus sideshow bravado that usually lesser talented artists rely on. Kanye had the right idea in that the entire stage was reserved for him and only him, yet too much of that was lost with the visual distractions all around. With all the energy and hype created by N.E.R.D. and even Rhianna, Kanye did little to keep the high level of excitement. The high emotional moment didn’t come from the more intense tracks like “Stronger” but from his touching tribute to his mother, “Hey Mama”, complete with a somewhat odd rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” by one of his backup singers.
Only, when the stage show was over and Kanye had a chance to be Kanye did the artist I was hoping to see burst through. The show sadly peaked when Lupe joined Kanye on stage to perform the hit “Touch The Sky” with all the emotion and energy I was waiting for for close to 90 minutes. A great ending for what I, apparently the minority, felt was a somewhat disappointing show.
As for my shout-out, it came, although, not in the way I was hoping it would. After the show was complete, Kanye felt compelled to play Devil’s Advocate with a 10-minute rant against media, complete with a declaration to “Fuck Magazines” to which the crowd roared in approval, and had me shrinking in my seat. Was it directed at me or SKUNK? I highly doubt it. However, I am sure this was going through his mind when he promised his acknowledgement of our publication. Big words from someone who relies so heavily on his foolish award show antics and bold televised statements against The prez’s views on black people for the purpose of media exposure. Talk about biting the hand that feeds.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Concert Review - Gonzales
Gonzales
May 8th, 2008
La Tulipe, Montreal
Sometimes the best musical experiences are either the ones you don’t know what to expect or don’t even plan to attend. On this particular night, all of the above was true, making it even more special than I ever could have imagined.
I was asked to attend by someone at the label Arts & Crafts (Home of uber groups such as Feist, The Stills, Constantine etc) and after saying yes, it becomes increasingly difficult to change my mind and bail – not if I planned on maintaining the solid relationship I’ve established over the course of the last 18 months. Ok, perhaps my attendance was not that vital, nor should I assume my presence that important. I don’t want to sound like some kind of journalistic elitist, but sometimes that’s the extra motivation I need to get myself from A to B.
And boy am I glad I did indeed make it to B (otherwise known as La Tulipe).
I knew very little of this Gonzales except that he wasn’t indie star Jose Gonzales and that he produced a whole lot of Feist’s body of work. Both of these would have been enough to cause me to run and hide under the desk while my cell rang repeatedly inquiring as to my whereabouts as well as when I was planning on showing up (there’s that elitist attitude again). Earlier in the day though I received my copy of Gonzales’ upcoming release, Soft Power, in the mail so I was able to give myself an aural taste of what to expect… or so I thought.
The truth of the matter is that his musical genius is but a small part of what made this evening’s theatrics so special. And that is impressive considering Gonzales has established himself as a pre-eminent fixture in the non-mainstream-but-all-the-cool-kids-dig-it scene. Gonzales (whose real name is Jason Charles Beck) is one of those musical prodigies who thrive as much in front of the mic as he does behind it. He is a composer, a rapper, a jazz aficionado, a producer, but above all, he is a showman – someone with an uncanny, innate love of the stage and performing, together, with his band -Le Together Ensemble – the atmosphere was electric and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation of something they already knew and I could never have imagined.
“We never expected this kind of turnout.” I was told by my connection at A&C.
Then, almost on cue, the man himself made his way in front of the baby-grand piano set to the left of the stage amid an enthusiastic roar of approval from the mixed crowd. One of the benefits of having a body of work that spans several different genres is being introduced to numerous different genres of crowds. There were the I-pod generation young hipsters, the elder folk there to pay homage to his jazz triumphs and of course the indie kids that flock to wherever their indie friends go. This didn’t even include the batch of Feist fans that attend anything that has her name mentioned in relation to. All were eyeing each other in a non-threatening way as if to question how dare they show up to what they thought exclusive to their scene only. There was no hostility though, but the uneasiness of such a plethora of ages, although subtle, was present.
For the next two hours, we were treated to a man who knows just how enjoyable he is. His egomaniacal cockiness became a pleasure to witness and the crowd ate up every bit of theatrics that came with what I know understand to be a standard Gonzales performance:
Prior to his performance of “Shameless Eyes”, a collaboration with Feist, Gonzales proclaims, “You know Feist? Well I made her.”
During a sing-a-long with the crowd during another, he asked one girl if she knew his hit song. When she said no, he promptly added, “well fuck you” and moved on to the next adorning fan.
At one point Gonzales made the entire band leave because they didn’t know his songs well enough, only for them to return several songs later to coincide with a stellar rendition of the soon-to-be indie hit “Apology”, off his soon-to-be-released album. This was followed by a splendid version of the first track off the album, “working together” which sounds as cheesy as the title would suggest. However, cheesy in this case was fucking entertaining, complete with band members doing the ol’ “fall backwards and trust someone to catch you” shtick. It was like watching something from Broadway or that last song in Blazing Saddles”.
The encore consisted of, of all things, Easy Lover, Classic Phil Collins, and the crowd just lost it.
To know that watching these dramatics unfolding onstage was purely part of the act made it all the sweeter. All of the onstage theatrics and the mental abuse aimed toward both band and audience were easy to laugh at knowing that there was no truth behind the insults he hurled.
As I sat with Torquil from Montreal darlings The Stars, we both agreed that musicians come and go, but entertainers are a dying breed.
Check out Gonzales on tour:
Monday, April 28, 2008
Harmony Festival
With the first rainstorm of the year here in marvelous Montreal currently hammering the thirsty city streets, for some reason it brings back memories of festivals past. No, I’m not talking about that time I was at the re-incarnation of Woodstock back in ’94 and was one of those fools, young enough to have a complete lack of concern about the repercussions of spending 3 straight days in the same muddy clothes, without a care in the world. In fact, one clear memory of one festival that stands out has nothing to do with rain, or poor weather, or anything to do with weather whatsoever.
This particular flashback takes place at the Harmony festival in Santa Rosa, CA, back in ’06. Harmony, because of the abundance of festivals in California, has a much more intimate and clandestine atmosphere, despite the stellar lineups, scenery and organization. In the three day extravaganza, the few of us who did manage to make the trek (it was about an hour outside of San Francisco, and an easy hitchhike – Dirty, smelly hippies will always pick up other dirty, smelly hippies… One of the few certainties in life) were treated to artists from all wakes of life. Ratdog, Spearhead, Cake, Canibus (Check out my story on the dude in SKUNK 4.1), Zero, STS9 and War made the 10 to 15,000 of us a happy bunch of stinky hippies. I could rave about all the wonderful aspects of Harmony, but that’s something I trust most of you to experience for yourself in the near future, and I hope my story helps push you to that small little area in Sonomo County.
My original plan was… well I didn’t really have one. I went up with nary a ticket nor much money in my pocket. All I had was a few loose bills I managed to scrounge up, some colorful pills and a handful of mushrooms. I guess you could say I was prepared in some capacity. However, my more immediate concern was that I had no way up to Santa Rosa to even begin this magical journey. The goal was to see that musical gatherings have not all gone the way of Bonnaroo and that there were people out there willing to help satisfy the craving for a “miracle”. I would be lying if I claimed that I wasn't fully prepared for the potential that this experiment would be a failure before it even lifted off.
Fortunately… that didn’t happen.
Friday, at around 3:00 PM, I had spent a fair amount of time trying to haul ass. If I would have been smart and checked around, I would have discovered that there was a bus that would have dropped me off about a block away, but where’s the fun in that? No, I was going to live by the secret hippie guidebook and find my way the cheapest way possible.
And then it happened. A car stops on the corner of Green and Grant out in North Beach. Your standard Shitbox attempting to disguise its shitbox-iness by covering the entire exterior in stickers of all shapes and sizes. The obligatory ‘Steal Your Faces’, ‘Down with Bush’ and ‘I’m a dirty, stinky hippie’ decals plastered over almost every square inch of the rust that had invaded and conquered the once snazzy maroon paintjob. Widespread boomed through the car, from a stereo that was worth tenfold what the rest of the car was. A mid-thirties woman with bleach-blond dreadlocks sat behind the wheel in a flowery dress and no shoes. Her stare was unsure of me but confident in herself. There's something sensual about a woman, regardless of attire. The same cannot be said for a guy, especially a hirsute one like myself, wandering aimlessly. Her confidence in herself won out and she asked me where I was going.
That’s my ride.
Skip the unimportance of the ride up (you can imagine what would be going on during the 60 minute blitz down the parkway), one problem has been solved and I’ve been immediately thrust with another one. I’m here, but no way of getting in. Here I was with a bag filled with some clothes, and a blanket. I had no tent, no camping gear of any sort, and the evening was fast approaching. The faint sounds of Hot Buttered Rum were echoing around the rapidly filling area. The atmosphere was electric and the notes fluttered by, right in front of my head – like a Disney movie about the life of Timothy Leary. The anticipation of Weir and the boys blowing my mind with some space, drums and jam was overwhelming and causing my heart to go pitter-patter. And this was just from the outside! Now, more than ever, it was imperative that I get in.
Fortunately I happened to know a couple of people involved in the festival, one was B. and the other was Wavy Gravy’s manager, Go-Go.
Problem number two solved.
To answer the question about charity and hospitality, yes, there are still those out there who do do things for others without expecting anything in return. I managed to rack up enough wristbands to sleep in Bob Weir’s bed and take a shit in Michael Franti’s crapper. I smoked a joint with Steve Kimock, chugged a beer with some dude from Ozomatli, talked music with Taj Mahal. The weather was as refreshing as mint-chip ice cream on a scorching hot summer afternoon. The sun shone like only a Southern Californian sun could and the breeze was brisk and only noticable when it was most welcome.
To say the setting was idyllic and ideal for a festival such as this would be an understatement.
But it was what happened on the second night, Saturday night, that truly epitomized the love, the harmony of the whole scene. After tripping on some mighty fine Mushrooms and enjoying the awesome showmanship from the boys in Cake and then Zero from the side of the stage, it was time to check out the rave portion of the show, featuring STS9 amongst others. More drugs and more debauchery was enough for me to make my exit and find a place to crash for the night. It was early, around 3:30 in the AM, and the entire grounds were left open, as opposed to most festivals in which they kick you out and guide you like sheep back to the designated sleeping areas. Here, the place was still rockin’ into the wee hours of the morning. Cheese and bread was still being cooked up, and various concoctions of soup were being mixed and served to the many munchied stoners. The sweet smell of Mary-Jane saturated the air, invigorating and inviting to all those who wanted. Live reggae was happening in one open-air tent, while in another, was your typical “stay high and chillax” open mic folk tent. The talent was so-so, but the effort and love of music was aplenty. To add to the relaxing atmosphere, large pillows covered the floor, making it easy to lie down and enjoy the aural stimulation, which many men, women and couples did. After spending a couple of hours flying like Peter Pan at the indoor rave, so this change of pace was extremely welcoming.
The weather, as expected in the wee hours of the morning, had turned from perfect to a touch on the cool side. Now, this wasn’t bad for me as I had my warm woolen blanket big enough for a family of obese midgets (would that just be normal people?), however, that wasn’t so for the pretty girl sleeping at my feet. Let’s call her ‘Molly’. In my hazy daze,I felt her feet creeping their way underneath the blanket. Noticing the way she was shivering in the typical butterfly-esque outfit one would expect to see here, I felt it was time for me to reciprocate the hippie hospitality and offer to share my blanket.
I didn't want to abruptly wake her and possibly scare the living daylights out of her, but I needed to get her attention. So I took the corner of my blanket and wrapped it around her feet. She stirred as if in a trance and her eyes beamed with appreciation as she eagerly grabbed both the blanket and my arm, which she promptly and sensuously drapped over her. I felt like her protector. I knew nothing about her, but somehow I felt as if it was my destiny for this moment to happen. I’m not going to lie and say that the drugs were not influencing my ability to think properly, however, I also was not going to sit there and debate whether or not what I was thinking was plausible or rational in any way, shape or form. I just wanted to be there, in the moment, with her, a complete stranger who, probably in her own drug haze, trusted me far more than she should, which, to me, was the most romantic thing in the world.
Not a care in the world entered my mind. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, the music was James Taylor, Joan Baez, Dan Bern and Neil Diamond. It was Van Morrison, Bruce Cockburn, Richie Havens and Lucinda Williams. I heard shades of Joni Mitchell singing back-up to Arlo Guthrie… it was magic.
At the moment, it was perfect.
And then she turned over.
She was facing me, I was finally able to see Molly’s face. Her red hair was on fire, but her eyes were distant. She was an image of pureness that seemed out of place in a world filled with greed and evil. The mood lighting from the lamp and the moonlight allowed her to maintain some mysteriousness but still be very alluring. She felt so vulnerable in my presence, as if she willed herself into enjoying the moment. I felt her lips crushing against mine. The moment seemed expected all along, but still caught me off-guard. She opened her eyes and I was able to see everything that she was thinking… and it was the same as me. Our thoughts were in sync... no words needed to be spoken.
From there, nature took its course. She left in the morning with her friends,whom had gone to their tent last night while she was flying on E. There was no heart-felt goodbye, no camp-like “I’ll call you when I’m back in town” awkwardness. I never even learned her name.
The rest of the Sunday was a hungover/burnt day in the sun, enjoying the jams of New Monsoon and asking why can't we be friends with War.
(Steve Kimock doin' his thing)
As good as the music was, it was the night with Molly that truly summarizes the magic and the spirit.
This year’s Harmony festival takes place from the 6th to the 8th of June and is, again, filled to the brim with great music. Damian Marley, George Clinton, Mickey Hart, Arrested Development and RJD2 help gives year’s edition a funk vibe.
But, if my story taught you anything, it’s that the music is but a small part of the festival experience.
This particular flashback takes place at the Harmony festival in Santa Rosa, CA, back in ’06. Harmony, because of the abundance of festivals in California, has a much more intimate and clandestine atmosphere, despite the stellar lineups, scenery and organization. In the three day extravaganza, the few of us who did manage to make the trek (it was about an hour outside of San Francisco, and an easy hitchhike – Dirty, smelly hippies will always pick up other dirty, smelly hippies… One of the few certainties in life) were treated to artists from all wakes of life. Ratdog, Spearhead, Cake, Canibus (Check out my story on the dude in SKUNK 4.1), Zero, STS9 and War made the 10 to 15,000 of us a happy bunch of stinky hippies. I could rave about all the wonderful aspects of Harmony, but that’s something I trust most of you to experience for yourself in the near future, and I hope my story helps push you to that small little area in Sonomo County.
My original plan was… well I didn’t really have one. I went up with nary a ticket nor much money in my pocket. All I had was a few loose bills I managed to scrounge up, some colorful pills and a handful of mushrooms. I guess you could say I was prepared in some capacity. However, my more immediate concern was that I had no way up to Santa Rosa to even begin this magical journey. The goal was to see that musical gatherings have not all gone the way of Bonnaroo and that there were people out there willing to help satisfy the craving for a “miracle”. I would be lying if I claimed that I wasn't fully prepared for the potential that this experiment would be a failure before it even lifted off.
Fortunately… that didn’t happen.
Friday, at around 3:00 PM, I had spent a fair amount of time trying to haul ass. If I would have been smart and checked around, I would have discovered that there was a bus that would have dropped me off about a block away, but where’s the fun in that? No, I was going to live by the secret hippie guidebook and find my way the cheapest way possible.
And then it happened. A car stops on the corner of Green and Grant out in North Beach. Your standard Shitbox attempting to disguise its shitbox-iness by covering the entire exterior in stickers of all shapes and sizes. The obligatory ‘Steal Your Faces’, ‘Down with Bush’ and ‘I’m a dirty, stinky hippie’ decals plastered over almost every square inch of the rust that had invaded and conquered the once snazzy maroon paintjob. Widespread boomed through the car, from a stereo that was worth tenfold what the rest of the car was. A mid-thirties woman with bleach-blond dreadlocks sat behind the wheel in a flowery dress and no shoes. Her stare was unsure of me but confident in herself. There's something sensual about a woman, regardless of attire. The same cannot be said for a guy, especially a hirsute one like myself, wandering aimlessly. Her confidence in herself won out and she asked me where I was going.
That’s my ride.
Skip the unimportance of the ride up (you can imagine what would be going on during the 60 minute blitz down the parkway), one problem has been solved and I’ve been immediately thrust with another one. I’m here, but no way of getting in. Here I was with a bag filled with some clothes, and a blanket. I had no tent, no camping gear of any sort, and the evening was fast approaching. The faint sounds of Hot Buttered Rum were echoing around the rapidly filling area. The atmosphere was electric and the notes fluttered by, right in front of my head – like a Disney movie about the life of Timothy Leary. The anticipation of Weir and the boys blowing my mind with some space, drums and jam was overwhelming and causing my heart to go pitter-patter. And this was just from the outside! Now, more than ever, it was imperative that I get in.
Fortunately I happened to know a couple of people involved in the festival, one was B. and the other was Wavy Gravy’s manager, Go-Go.
Problem number two solved.
To answer the question about charity and hospitality, yes, there are still those out there who do do things for others without expecting anything in return. I managed to rack up enough wristbands to sleep in Bob Weir’s bed and take a shit in Michael Franti’s crapper. I smoked a joint with Steve Kimock, chugged a beer with some dude from Ozomatli, talked music with Taj Mahal. The weather was as refreshing as mint-chip ice cream on a scorching hot summer afternoon. The sun shone like only a Southern Californian sun could and the breeze was brisk and only noticable when it was most welcome.
To say the setting was idyllic and ideal for a festival such as this would be an understatement.
But it was what happened on the second night, Saturday night, that truly epitomized the love, the harmony of the whole scene. After tripping on some mighty fine Mushrooms and enjoying the awesome showmanship from the boys in Cake and then Zero from the side of the stage, it was time to check out the rave portion of the show, featuring STS9 amongst others. More drugs and more debauchery was enough for me to make my exit and find a place to crash for the night. It was early, around 3:30 in the AM, and the entire grounds were left open, as opposed to most festivals in which they kick you out and guide you like sheep back to the designated sleeping areas. Here, the place was still rockin’ into the wee hours of the morning. Cheese and bread was still being cooked up, and various concoctions of soup were being mixed and served to the many munchied stoners. The sweet smell of Mary-Jane saturated the air, invigorating and inviting to all those who wanted. Live reggae was happening in one open-air tent, while in another, was your typical “stay high and chillax” open mic folk tent. The talent was so-so, but the effort and love of music was aplenty. To add to the relaxing atmosphere, large pillows covered the floor, making it easy to lie down and enjoy the aural stimulation, which many men, women and couples did. After spending a couple of hours flying like Peter Pan at the indoor rave, so this change of pace was extremely welcoming.
The weather, as expected in the wee hours of the morning, had turned from perfect to a touch on the cool side. Now, this wasn’t bad for me as I had my warm woolen blanket big enough for a family of obese midgets (would that just be normal people?), however, that wasn’t so for the pretty girl sleeping at my feet. Let’s call her ‘Molly’. In my hazy daze,I felt her feet creeping their way underneath the blanket. Noticing the way she was shivering in the typical butterfly-esque outfit one would expect to see here, I felt it was time for me to reciprocate the hippie hospitality and offer to share my blanket.
I didn't want to abruptly wake her and possibly scare the living daylights out of her, but I needed to get her attention. So I took the corner of my blanket and wrapped it around her feet. She stirred as if in a trance and her eyes beamed with appreciation as she eagerly grabbed both the blanket and my arm, which she promptly and sensuously drapped over her. I felt like her protector. I knew nothing about her, but somehow I felt as if it was my destiny for this moment to happen. I’m not going to lie and say that the drugs were not influencing my ability to think properly, however, I also was not going to sit there and debate whether or not what I was thinking was plausible or rational in any way, shape or form. I just wanted to be there, in the moment, with her, a complete stranger who, probably in her own drug haze, trusted me far more than she should, which, to me, was the most romantic thing in the world.
Not a care in the world entered my mind. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, the music was James Taylor, Joan Baez, Dan Bern and Neil Diamond. It was Van Morrison, Bruce Cockburn, Richie Havens and Lucinda Williams. I heard shades of Joni Mitchell singing back-up to Arlo Guthrie… it was magic.
At the moment, it was perfect.
And then she turned over.
She was facing me, I was finally able to see Molly’s face. Her red hair was on fire, but her eyes were distant. She was an image of pureness that seemed out of place in a world filled with greed and evil. The mood lighting from the lamp and the moonlight allowed her to maintain some mysteriousness but still be very alluring. She felt so vulnerable in my presence, as if she willed herself into enjoying the moment. I felt her lips crushing against mine. The moment seemed expected all along, but still caught me off-guard. She opened her eyes and I was able to see everything that she was thinking… and it was the same as me. Our thoughts were in sync... no words needed to be spoken.
From there, nature took its course. She left in the morning with her friends,whom had gone to their tent last night while she was flying on E. There was no heart-felt goodbye, no camp-like “I’ll call you when I’m back in town” awkwardness. I never even learned her name.
The rest of the Sunday was a hungover/burnt day in the sun, enjoying the jams of New Monsoon and asking why can't we be friends with War.
(Steve Kimock doin' his thing)
As good as the music was, it was the night with Molly that truly summarizes the magic and the spirit.
This year’s Harmony festival takes place from the 6th to the 8th of June and is, again, filled to the brim with great music. Damian Marley, George Clinton, Mickey Hart, Arrested Development and RJD2 help gives year’s edition a funk vibe.
But, if my story taught you anything, it’s that the music is but a small part of the festival experience.
This is the War that truly needs your support
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Workin' for the Weekend
One of the benefits of working as music editor for any international magazine like SKUNK, especially after a long period of time, is the lucrative and elitist invitations I get for every kind of show imaginable, local and out of town. In fact, it’s becoming increasingly rare for me to be required to open up my wallet and dish out bill after bill all for the luxury of witnessing a musically religious experience. If I can recall correctly, I believe the last show in which I did have to shell out my not-so-hard earned moolah was for the comical nostalgia of witnessing Loverboy in all their glory. And that was only because I was too embarrassed to make any kind of effort to grovel for the experience (that, a ten dollar ticket and a last minute drunken decision wasn’t worth the energy). When they say that everybody is working for the weekend, they obviously weren’t thinking of me. Nevertheless, how I felt about this show was very similar to how I felt about checking out a Steven Segal and Thunderbox performance at a casino in Richmond, B.C. I mean, considering his troubles with the mafia, he needed my 30 bucks more than I did.
Anyways, all that coupled with the pleasure of knowing that sold-out shows doesn't mean sold out for yours truly epitomizes how the fringe benefits far exceed the monetary ones at this position.
But this blog wasn’t meant to toot my own horn (not completely anyways). This was more of a prelude to what kind of lifestyle this position entails. Last year I did my best to try and accommodate everyone who, I thought, went out of their way to give me the red carpet treatment. Ok, perhaps I didn’t get THAT kind of treatment, but it still felt as if anyone who asked, no, pleaded for me to attend this show or that, was going through a far too strenuous effort to make sure I make an appearance.
How could I turn those down?
Now that I’m a little older and wiser, I’ve learned that I am allowed to pick and choose what I attend. But still my schedule has been filling up almost daily.
Here’s a few of things that are planned for the summer, none involving the piece of crap Bonnaroo (Metallica? Why not just have Limp Bizkit and Crazytown make appearances!):
Mountain Jam – The festival extravaganza kicks off in the birthplace of the commercialized festival – Woodstock. A more old-school line-up of straight up bluegrass, country and rock, this is a great way to set the tone for the summer. Ratdog, Gov’t Mule and Drive-By Truckers are the biggies, but I’m really looking forward to checking out Levon Helm’s Ramble on the Road.
10,000 Lakes Festival – A fan favorite in Minnesota, 10klf has the luxury of being lakeside and in an extremely shady environment. That is perfect for a mid-summer weekend that keeps you on your feet through the music of groups like Spearhead, Phil Lesh and Flaming Lips.
Lollapalooza – The mother of all shows (behind Coachella which I now regret turning down) has transformed from a traveling road show to a one-weekend shebang in Chicago. I could talk about the line-up all day, so I just suggest you check it out for yourself. I will mention though that Radiohead, Rage Against The Machine, Nine Inch Nails and Kanye are just a few of the uber-stars.
Osheaga – Montreal now has its own unique gathering. Now in its third year, the line-up has reached jaw-dropping status. From the Killers to Iggy Pop to Jack Johnson, the eclectic mix means large, eclectic crowds. Not that I care, I’ll be roving backstage, externally feeling bad for the sardine-tight crowds at the front of the stages while internally laughing in jubilation.
Hopefully Chad will give me some more insight onto some of the lesser-knowns that I should check out, but even more hopefully, I’ll get the chance to catch up with him at some obscure folk gathering in the middle of, say, Iowa or Texas.
Anyone have any good festival stories out there?
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